


In my veins

by pleasebekidding



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alaric is a vampire, Damon is human, M/M, explicit sex you know me guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:59:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8129605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/pseuds/pleasebekidding
Summary: Elena called early in December, three days after she left Damon for good. Said after the debacle of Thanksgiving she couldn’t do another Christmas, and definitely couldn’t do another New Year’s, with Damon the way he was. And she cried. And she begged Alaric to come, please, just come, because she was afraid if Damon was alone, he might not make it to January.He booked an afternoon flight, for the following day.





	

**Author's Note:**

> What you need to know;  
> Alaric was never cured of being an original vampire.  
> Damon took the cure, and he and Elena moved to the little bar Damon showed Stefan in 6.21.

Elena called early in December, three days after she left Damon for good. Said after the debacle of Thanksgiving she couldn’t do another Christmas, and definitely couldn’t do another New Year’s, with Damon the way he was. And she cried. And she begged Alaric to come, _please, just come_ , because she was afraid if Damon was alone, he might not make it to January.

Alaric stared at the phone for a long time, after she ended the call. He poured himself a glass of bourbon, and stood out on the porch; the air was cool, but it didn’t bother him.

It never really did, anymore.

\--

He booked an afternoon flight, for the following day. Gave him a few hours to pack enough clothes to cope if he was gone for a month, or longer, though he wondered if Damon might actually just ask him to leave, after a day or two to make sure he was alright. It was possible. It had been years since they’d talked. Maybe looking at Alaric reminded Damon too much of everything he’d given up. Certainly, looking at Damon reminded Alaric of everything he’d lost. And Alaric reminded himself daily that everyone he loved, he was going to lose, eventually, soon, and over and over again until he figured out how to die. And maybe losing Damon was the best possible practice.

The flight got in at eleven that night and Alaric got a taxi straight to the bar. He stopped on the sidewalk. It was nice. Looked pretty classy. A door to the right obviously led to the apartment, but Elena had told him excitedly eight years back that there was an internal stairwell, too. Upstairs, only one light shone.

But the bar was busy.

Alaric carried his suitcase inside. He didn’t recognize the music that was playing, but it felt like Boston, tasted like Ireland. It was a rowdy patronage. Mostly men, in their twenties and thirties, probably with money, probably with wives and kids at home. A handful of EMTs, and Alaric reminded himself that Elena’s hospital was only down the road.

Alaric saw no sign of Damon, so he approached the bar, tucking his suitcase to the side, and called over a bartender.

“Where’s Damon?” he asked.

“Same place he always is, this time of night,” the kid said, and pointed to the end of the bar. Damon had an empty glass close to his fingertips; head on the bar on his folded arms. Alaric’s shoulders dropped, and he sighed.

“How do you get through to the apartment?”

“I’m not telling you –”

“I’ll rephrase,” Alaric said, with a touch of eyeflare. “Tell me how to get upstairs to the apartment.”

“Stairwell’s the door past the office.”

“Thank you.”

He used the suitcase to part the crowd, and stopped at the end of the bar. A hand on Damon’s shoulder and a little shake.

“Damon.”

Nothing. He was alive. He was breathing. He still had eyelashes that were at least an inch long. He was older, but still so beautiful.

“He’s out,” came a voice. “I mean it’s been bad, but this is bad. Last three nights. Since she left. You a friend of his?”

Alaric looked up. “Yeah. It’s been a while. She called. Said he might be… well. Like this, I guess.”

“He is. Exactly like that.”

The suitcase could wait. “Watch this for me,” Alaric told the bartender; well dressed, in a button up collared shirt with a wide tie, and Elvis hair (the good kind, not the… other kind). “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The guy looked Alaric up and down. Apparently, he decided that kidnapping Damon and carrying him back to his own apartment was a shitty plan because he nodded; and when Alaric lifted Damon up onto his shoulder (“Easy, buddy, I’ve got you”) he followed down the hallway, opening doors. He even sneaked upstairs to leave the suitcase, though Alaric didn’t notice until later.

The apartment was nice; they’d never done much to it, apparently, it looked much like it had on the crumpled realtor’s flyer Damon had shown him a thousand years ago. The bedroom door was open. The bed was unmade. The room stunk of bourbon filtered through pores that needed washing but tomorrow, tomorrow he’d sort it out. Tonight… well. He laid Damon, still out cold, on the bed. Pulled his shoes off, and left the rest. He rolled Damon onto his side to make sure he didn’t throw up and suffocate, and pulled a blanket up over his body.

Damon didn’t stir until the sun came up, and then, it wasn’t for long.

“Ric?”

“Yeah.” Alaric closed the book he’d been reading, and leaned forward, arms resting on his knees.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching you sleep.”

“Creepy as fuck.”

Alaric grinned. “Well. I owed you.”

Damon blinked, and rolled over, and went back to sleep.

\--

Breakfast was coffee. No wonder Damon looked thin. He sat up at the breakfast bar and stared into his cup for a long time. Alaric didn’t speak.

“Something in here’s different,” Damon said.

“Yeah. I cleaned. While you were asleep. Thought you were a neat freak,” he added, but Damon’s eyes clouded over.

“I was a lot of things.” He lifted the coffee, and paused it close to his lips. “I’m none of them, now.”

\--

The bar opened at noon, but Damon really only had to unlock and set the tills and leave them all to it; so he and Alaric took a corner booth, and had lunch. Damon’s hands shook until he finished his second bourbon but Alaric made no comment.

“I haven’t had a burger in… ages,” Alaric said, examining it closely (the apparently famous burger; some burger expert had given it five stars, and that had doubled the weekday lunch trade overnight, couple of years back).  “When I… turned, food smelled awful for a long time…”

“All food is rotting,” Damon said. “The second it’s dead. Slaughter a cow, it starts to rot. Pick an apple, it starts to rot. Stinks, until you learn to ignore it.”

Alaric nodded. “If only you hadn’t been stuck in 1994. You would have come in very handy when I was tryin’ to figure out how not to kill people, and… still… eat.”

Damon was dismissive. “Probably would have fucked it up. Speaking of. When did you last eat?”

“Before I headed to the airport yesterday.”

“I don’t mean food.”

“Neither do I.” He met Damon’s gaze, and shrugged. “It’s been a long time, man. I figured it out eventually.”

“Blood bags?”

“Not for years. Used to keep a few on hand, but not anymore. Thanks for your concern, dad.” He raised his eyebrows and took a chip from his plate.

“Not too old for me to put you over my knee. Don’t eat my bartenders.”

“Your bartenders are not my type.”

“My bartenders are everyone’s type,” Damon said, with a roll of his eyes, reaching for his beer before starts digging into his burger. “She left,” he says, with his mouth full.

“I know.”

“We fell out of love, and she… left.”

Alaric froze. That, he wasn’t expecting. “You fell out of love.” Perhaps he’d misheard.

“We fell out of love. Stopped sleeping together. She started crashing in the guest bedroom. You know. It was supposed to be a nursery, one day. We just… fell out of love. We weren’t even friends, after that. I gave up eternity.”

Alaric waited for a long time, waiting for Damon to finish. But he was frozen, staring out into space. Alaric let himself study Damon’s face. Fine lines around his mouth, his eyes. A gray hair near his temple. He was, what – thirty-two, now? Improving with age.

He wasn’t going to speak, apparently.

Alaric reached out, closed his hand around Damon’s wrist for a moment. “Hey. You did what you said you wanted to do.”

“Enlighten me, Ric. I can’t fucking remember. What did I say I wanted to do?”

“You said you’d give it all up for a _chance_. Remember? You took a chance.”

Damon met Alaric’s eyes, at last. Deeply miserable. “Yeah. I gave it up. For a chance.” He took his arm back, and reached for his burger. “And we fell out of love.”

\--

They spent the afternoon wandering around, though Damon didn’t really seem to want to do the tourist thing. He didn’t offer helpful commentary about which grunge drummer puked against what wall in 1998, or where the best donuts could be bought. He looked surprised to see some of the stores nearby.

“Don’t get out much.”

“Got a kitchen downstairs,” he said. “Bar downstairs. People. Everything I need. Downstairs. Don’t need to get out much.”

Alaric nodded, and said nothing, but he stopped when Damon stopped suddenly, looking around.

“You know how many people would happily kill me if they knew I was human, and it was going to be easy?”

“No. How many?”

“It was a rhetorical question.”

“You want to get back?”

Damon eyed the sky. “It’s gonna rain.”

“It’s Seattle. You wanna get back?”

Damon didn’t answer, just stuck his hands in his pockets and kept on wandering. Apparently he felt safe enough, on the mean streets of Seattle, with a badass bestie. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

Early in the evening, Alaric took a seat at the end of the bar. He drank slowly. Since getting drunk had, in all these years, remained a stark impossibility, he’d given up trying. Still helped with the cravings, still tasted damn good, so it all worked out, really.

Good book. He’d picked it up in the airport, read a little on the plane. Out of the corner of his eye Alaric watched Damon. He looked good – dapper, really, in his button-up shirt, but apparently this wasn’t the norm (or perhaps hadn’t been lately) because two of the bartenders commented, though Damon didn’t respond.

He polished all the brass fittings until they gleamed. Welcomed a regular customer, who bought him a drink. His second drink was faster. Alaric said nothing.

By nine he was buzzing, life of the bar, tie loose, top three buttons open. Lighting shots on fire, winking at Ric, who watched it all with a combination of amusement and concern. By eleven, he was hardly able to stand, telling a bunch of young guys why women were evil and to be avoided at all costs, making them laugh, raucous agreement all around – though a couple of them did say ‘speaking of women…’ and left.

“Man, it must be fun to own a bar,” everyone said.

Everyone wanted to be Damon except Damon.

By midnight, he was sitting alongside Alaric, struggling to hold his glass up.

“You want to maybe call it a night?” Alaric said. “Get some sleep?” But Damon was unconscious on his arm again.

Alaric watched for a moment, listened to the quiet snores. He met a bartender’s eye. Same guy who’d helped him the night before. “Every night?”

The guy nodded. “Every night.”

“Since she left?”

He hesitated. “Well. Before. But it got worse.”

Alaric carried Damon upstairs to bed.

\--

A little bourbon in his morning coffee and Damon stopped shaking.

“Here to dry me out?” he said, with a smile that said ‘I dare you’.

Alaric shook his head. “No.”

Damon rolled his eyes. “Sure you are, Ric. You’re here to clean my apartment and clear out my head. Hope you’ve got some time, man, because I have no intention of stopping.”

“I’m not here to dry you out. Unless you want me to. Wouldn’t even be hard. I can be very compelling.”

Damon narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“Not unless you asked me to. Look, I’m here. Thought I’d stay until New Year’s. Just… hang out. You were my best friend.”

“And who gets that dubious honor now?”

Alaric pretended to think about it. “Nope. Think you’re still stuck with me.”

“And now you get to wring me out, like I used to do for you.”

“I guess. And you never told me to stop. Be a bit hypocritical if I tried to make you stop now, don’t you think?”

Damon poured another coffee, added a little more bourbon.

“You miss her?”

“Feel like I should miss her. But even when she was here. I was never enough. And neither was she.” He swallowed hard, and closed his eyes for a moment. “I never heard her.”

Alaric waited. Damon wanted to talk. He’d do it when he found the words.

“She said I shouldn’t do this if it was only for her. I said it was for us, not her. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t for _her,_ and _me_. It was for the relationship. I never wanted this for me. Never. I loved being a vampire.”

Alaric stared at the kitchen bench.

“I was good at being a vampire. I loved it. I _reveled_ in it. As a human I had no fucking clue what I was supposed to do with my life. Dad said join the army, let them make a man out of you, so I did that. And then I deserted and I still had no idea what I wanted to do, except Katherine. Nothing made sense until I’d been a vampire for fifty fucking years and now I’ve lost everything. This isn’t me. And I’m stuck with it. Forever. I can’t get myself turned back. I just stare at the mirror and hate myself for getting older every goddamn day. You’re the one who should have sucked the cure out of Elena. You hate being a vampire.”

Alaric closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them, the shower was running, and Damon was gone.

\--

Christmas Eve, the bar was packed to the rafters. Decorated to within an inch of its life. Everything else was the same, with one exception; Elena came by, around eight. Older, and so pretty.

Damon stepped out from behind the bar, three sheets to the wind, and gave her a quick hug, offered her a drink, pointed out Alaric at his sentry post.

She sat down with an orange juice and champagne, and put an arm around Alaric’s neck. He could feel her heartbeat, hear it. Smell her blood. And other things. Chemicals, mostly. Human illness. And a man’s aftershave.

“How’s he doing?”

Alaric shook his head. “I don’t know how to answer that.”

“You have to get him to stop drinking.”

“Do I?” Alaric pushed his book aside. “Is that why you asked me to come here, Elena?”

“I don’t know why I asked you to come here. I thought you’d help him.”

“All he needs is a friend. He’ll get there.”

“You’re a goddamn enabler, Alaric.” … probably fair. Alaric shrugged. “Seen Jeremy?”

Alaric nodded. “Helped him out with a thing in Tennessee a few weeks back. Not that he needed much help. He’s… badass.”

Damon raised a shot with a group of regulars, and knocked it back, slamming the glass down on the bar.

“I can’t watch this,” Elena said. “I should go.”

“How long have you been seeing him?”

Elena had always been a useless liar. “Hmm?” she said, raising her glass.

“Don’t.”

“Not long.”

“Not long like a week?” But her silence spoke volumes. “Let’s meet for lunch before I go. And talk about anything but that.”

“Before you go? You’re leaving?”

It was about then that Alaric realized he wasn’t. Wasn’t planning to, anyway. Not for a while. What did he have to go back to?

“I guess not,” he said.

\--

New Year’s Eve; about two in the morning Damon dropped a bottle he was pouring himself a drink from and Alaric hauled him up the stairs _before_ he could pass out. He did have to do something. He couldn’t watch this train wreck. But he wasn’t having the conversation while Damon was drunk, or too hung over to function, which left them precious little time.

Damon had him pinned to the wall, kissing him open-mouthed and messy, for at least three seconds when Alaric realized what was going on, and pushed him away, wiping his mouth.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growled.

“You know you want to,” Damon slurred, reaching for Alaric’s belt like there was the remotest possibility he could ever get it up in this state. Alaric pushed him away again.

“Stop,” he warned. “What the hell’s gotten into you? Jesus Christ, Damon…”

“This is why you’re here,” Damon said, holding himself up against the wall. “Damon Salvatore, single again. Your big chance.” His eyes were wide, the whites showing all the way around the outside, pupils blown. “How long have you been in love with me, Ric? Did it start after Jenna died, or before?”

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asked again.

“Ever fed off someone while you were fucking them? There’s nothing like it in the world.”

“You’re fuckin’ drunk. You need to go to bed before you say something you really do regret.”

“You need to go home, back to your depressing little existence in your depressing little house in your depressing little town,” Damon spat, and stopped trying to close in on him. “I don’t want you here.”

“I’ll leave tomorrow,” Alaric said, one hand still out. “Go to bed. I’ll book my ticket right now. Just go to bed.”

Damon made a disgusted face, and staggered to his bedroom. Alaric heard the door slam, and relaxed at last.

Took him ten minutes to book a ticket home. It was leaving at noon, thereabouts, the following day. Sounded good to him. Time he called this little experiment off. No point in trying to be there for someone who didn’t want him there. He sat on the couch, eyes closed, phone in his hand with the confirmation page open.

He wasn’t in love with Damon.

He’d never been in love with Damon.

… and of all the shitty ways for Damon to throw it back in his face, that was undoubtedly the cruelest.

“Shit,” Alaric said, to the carpet, to no one at all.

\--

He left a note. Apologized, in a very Alaric-y way, just a general apology for existing, the kind he often made. He left a note, and he checked that Damon was still breathing, and he headed out to hail himself a cab.

The phone beeped just as he was about to self-check his luggage.

_[DS]: Don’t go. Please don’t get on that plane._

Alaric closed his eyes, and stepped out of line, and stared at the message for thirty seconds, maybe more.

_[DS]: I felt you read that. Please. Please, Ric.  
[DS]: I don’t say please very often. Don’t make me say it again._

“Can I help you, sir?” asked a pretty young woman in the airline’s uniform.

“I just checked in,” Alaric said. “But I’ve changed my mind.”

The phone beeped again, and Alaric replied. _On my way back_.

\--

They sat on opposite ends of the couch, and Damon pointedly drank from a large glass of water. He smelled terrible, but he’d showered. He couldn’t meet Alaric’s eyes, but that didn’t matter, not really, not yet.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

Alaric leaned forward, elbows on his knees, arms crossed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I shouldn’t have said…”

“Damon. Don’t. Let’s just move forward.”

“You’re not gonna sober me up.”

“Message received, man. One enabler, reporting for duty.”

“Asshole. God, I feel like shit. We’re closed tonight. Closed until Friday.”

“Good.” Alaric stood, and stretched, and carried his suitcase back to the guest room. Supposed to be the nursery. “I need to go out,” he said, when he came back to the living room. Damon looked off-balance, disappointed. “I need to eat, Damon. Remember?”

“You can feed off me.”

“No. I can’t.”

“Sure you can.”

“Not unless you want a hundred and eighty years’ worth of aging to start catching up with you,” Alaric said. “I’ll be back. I’ll try not to be long, alright? I’ll make us something to eat. Actual food. When I get back.”

Damon nodded, and reached for his water, and Alaric left. He ran hard, like he was running away, like there was any chance of escaping this mess. Because Damon was right, and Alaric was in love, and he could feel himself getting more tightly tangled every minute. Somewhere up above, a plane was hurtling its way across the states to JFK, and Alaric wasn’t on it.

Only time would tell whether he’d made a mistake.

The guy he drank from was compact, and dark haired, but he was no substitute.

When Alaric got back, his suitcase was unpacked, everything hanging in the wardrobe or tucked away in a drawer. This was the apology. Okay. Alaric got it. Damon was napping so Alaric fetched a few things from the kitchen downstairs. He felt a lot better with his system flush with blood. He chopped vegetables and boiled water to soften noodles, sliced beef so thin it barely needed cooking.

Damon crawled out of bed again at three in the afternoon, drawn by the smell of garlic and chilies. His hair was sticking up everywhere. His sleep pants barely hung on to his hips, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Alaric acknowledged him with a nod, but didn’t let himself look, not really. Damon was too readily improving with age.

“You unpacked my stuff.”

Damon shrugged, and pulled a beer out of the fridge. “You look homeless. Living out of a suitcase. Everything creased.”

“Thanks for prettyin’ that up for me, I appreciate it,” Alaric said, grinning. “Hope you’re hungry.”

Damon sat at the breakfast bar, and watched, sipping his beer slowly. Better than chugging bourbon.

“I keep waiting for my lecture.”

“Do you want one?”

“No,” Damon scoffed.

“I can give you one, if you like, but I don’t think you’d listen. How spicy to you take food these days? I don’t want to kill you.”

“About half what I used to. Elena says I’m destroying my liver, and I’ll end up killing myself.”

“Is that what you want?”

Damon rubbed his temples, and looked up. “No,” he said.

“You’re not happy. I’d suggest therapy, but…”

“I can’t tell a therapist I used to be a vampire.”

“You can tell them about your life now.”

“I’m not going to therapy,” Damon growled, and took another sip of his beer. “Christ, I’ve made a mess.”

Alaric threw the meat into the pan, the vegetables. Tossed them for a moment or two, trying to decide what he should do next. Say next. He threw the noodles in. “I was a mess, once. You can get out of it, Damon, you just have to want it enough to try.”

\--

The next couple of days were bad. Damon’s shaking went from bad to worse, and he sweated filth from his body like it was going out of style. He soaked in the bathtub and Alaric scrubbed his back, hauled him into the shower to rinse off while he changed the sheets on the bed. He popped valium like it was candy, until Alaric took it away, because the last thing he needed was a benzo addiction on top of everything else.

The couple of days after that were better. They sat on the couch in the evenings marathonning old TV shows and Damon drank nothing but water.

Alaric really didn’t know what he was supposed to do next. Suggest AA? But Damon scoffed, and swore he’d never really quit, just needed to get it under control, and since it was his life and his call Alaric didn’t suggest it again.

On the fourth night Damon crept across the couch and settled himself against Alaric’s side, wriggled until he was leaning against his chest. Alaric didn’t comment, just draped an arm around his shoulders and across his chest and gave a gentle squeeze.

\--

Getting back to work was hard. So much temptation. Damon had a couple of drinks with the customers, but followed Alaric upstairs tipsy and cheerful, not unconscious over his shoulder or grabbing at him.

“Going to sleep?” he asked, dumping his keys, phone, wallet on the side table and eyeing the refrigerator.

“I guess,” Alaric answered. “Goodnight.”

“But do you? Sleep?”

Alaric turned, and sighed. “Not much. Never have. Two, three hours. I read.”

Damon opened his mouth, closed it again. He looked tired. And tipsy. “Goodnight,” he said, and wandered into his room, closing the door behind him.

Next morning Alaric dressed for a run because he hadn’t done it since he’d arrived in Seattle, and wanted to get back into the habit. He found sweat pants and an old t-shirt, tied his runners while he was sitting on the couch. Damon staggered out of the bedroom, stretching, bare chested and so gorgeous Alaric couldn’t look at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Going for a run.”

“You know that makes no difference, right?”

“Makes a difference to me,” Alaric said. “Get changed. Come with me.”

Damon looked alarmed. “I think for the first time in my unnaturally long life I’m actually out of shape. That might literally kill me.”

“Then you should definitely come with me.”

Didn’t kill him. Didn’t go great, but by the time Alaric was hauling his sorry ass onto the couch before reaching for the makings of a decent hot breakfast Damon was already declaring he was going to have to do a lot more of that. His cheeks were pink, his breathing was ragged, and his eyes were wide. Every day, he promised out loud.

Alaric grinned, as he cracked eggs into the pan. Good.

They established a rhythm, domestic and easy, over January, as rain gave way to the occasional light fall of snow. Up by noon to open the bar, out for a run, late breakfast or maybe lunch downstairs. Mondays the bar was closed and they watched movies, occasionally even went out to see one. Damon drank. He did, and some nights he got stinking drunk but never two nights in a row, and he was so regretful the next day that the event became rare.

One night, early February, with a snowfall so light it was barely settling on the ground, Alaric was sitting up in bed reading when the door opened.

“You alright?” he asked, looking up.

Damon nodded distractedly, but didn’t move.

“You need something?”

“No,” Damon said, but came inside, closed the door behind him and stretched out on the bed. Alaric blinked at him, a couple of times, but returned to his book, until it was just too weird to ignore the elephant in the room.

“I should get some sleep,” he said. “Are you gonna…”

“Do you think I should date?”

That was the last thing Alaric expected to hear. He tossed the book aside, feeling the blood drain from his face. “Do you want to date?”

“Maybe. Wouldn’t mind getting laid every once in a while. And I’m still hot. I own a bar. Lots of ticks in boxes, here, Ric. Who wouldn’t want to date me?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Alaric said, with a tight smile. “But if you want to date, date. I worked behind a bar in college, you know, I can cover you. And now I really –”

But Damon slid across the space and straddled Alaric’s hips, pressing his hands to Alaric’s chest, and leaned in almost close enough to kiss him. Fuck. Alaric didn’t have this kind of self-control. “Would you date me?” he asked, in a singsong voice that made Alaric want to pin him to the bed and show him just how hard he would date Damon Salvatore, human extraordinaire.

“Don’t do this,” he said, but he said it with his hands on Damon’s bare hips. “Don’t.”

“But you _are_ in love with me.”

“Damon.”

“You should have told me.” Damon sat up, a vicious glint in his eye, his weight on Alaric’s thighs. “Dick.”

“When?” Alaric rubbed his temple. “You were in love with Elena. You’ve always been in love with Elena. For god’s sake, Damon, when would I have told you?”

“When I was about to throw my eternal life away would have been a choice moment.”

“I told you, man, I told you you were writing checks your ass couldn’t cash. I told you you shouldn’t do it unless you were sure. And you said you were sure. And – neon flashing sign here, Damon, _you were in love with Elena_. Which part of me saying that eight times in thirty seconds is escaping you?”

“And now I’m not,” he hissed. “But now I’m human, and I’ll be ugly in a few years and dead soon after that and you don’t want me anymore.” There was venom in his words, and Alaric wanted to push him off, but he grabbed his wrists, preparing to yell, and dragging him into a thorough kiss instead. One hand cupping the back of his neck and the other reaching around to pull him close. Had Damon planned for this? Maybe. Probably just wanted some attention, and running around killing people was no longer an effective M.O. He grinded against Alaric’s body, and Alaric groaned, shifting the kiss to his jaw, down his throat, imagining he could almost taste Damon’s blood through his skin.

“You haven’t forgotten how,” Alaric said, bushing his lips over Damon’s ear.

“This isn’t dating,” Damon growled. “This is foreplay.”

“Bad idea.”

“Ugh, should have known you’d be even more responsible and mature as a vampire. You’ve wanted to do this for years, and now it’s a ‘bad idea’?”

“No, it was always a bad idea,” Alaric said, reaching up to brush Damon’s hair from his eyes. “And it still is. You’re a mess. You need to not be a mess before you get…” He sighed, let his brain run a porn reel for a few moments. He’d really never grasped vampire morality, or lack of it. “You need to sleep.”

Damon didn’t move. “I just want to feel something again.”

Alaric forced himself to just breathe, enjoy the improbable calm it always brought. “You should really go to bed,” he said, and Damon climbed off him and left without another word.

Alaric waited a few minutes, and changed into a pair of sleep pants. Just ancient soft sweats he’d never been able to part with, even when they were really too ragged and thin to run in. He padded through the apartment, turning off the last of the lights, and paused at Damon’s bedroom door.

“Are you alright?” he said. Quietly enough so if Damon had managed to fall asleep he wouldn’t wake him. A muffled noise said he was still wide awake. Alaric opened the door. Damon was curled up under the covers, facing the wall. The light was off, but Alaric could see him well enough with the little light afforded by the window.

“Are you alright on your own?” he asked, hesitantly. Damon shifted, raising his head, looking over his shoulder.

“I’m an adult, Ric. Don’t even need a night light.”

Alaric hesitated another moment, and closed the door.

He didn’t sleep much. But then, he never really did.

––

“In an effort to get out of the house,” Damon said, two days later, “and not at all a calculated effort to find out what the competition is doing; we’re going out tonight.”

Alaric looked up from his laptop, and leaned back against the dining room chair. “Out?”

“Out. Restaurant. Food. Couple of drinks, not enough so you have to fireman-carry me out of there. You’re…” he made a face. “… gonna want to change.”

Alaric looked at the faded gray flannel he was wearing, with some consternation. “Fine,” he said. “Just gimme a minute.”

He heard the shower running, moments later, and finished his email (trying to secure a dagger Jeremy needed to deal with a ghoul issue in Sacramento before the wine season could be ruined; Jeremy was damn good at his job, but research, getting weapons, all of that… it needed a subtler hand, and Alaric still had all his contacts). He was changing his shirt when Damon barged in and started looking through his clothing.

“Not that one. Here,” he said, sounding mildly disappointed, passing Alaric a hanger and taking back the shirt he’d been about to put on. “If you’re sticking around, you really need some more clothes, you know.”

 _If you’re sticking around_. Like it hadn’t been seven weeks, like Alaric had made the slightest movement towards leaving. Damon was right, though. Alaric was cycling through the same eight shirts, few of which had been much of anything to start with. He took the shirt and pulled it on, buttoning it in front of the mirror. He’d taken to avoiding looking at any refelction of his face, the last couple of years. The lack of change – the way the wrinkles around his eyes had stopped deepening – it disturbed him, in a visceral way, and he hated the reminder of what he was.

“Nice,” Damon purred, and then shrugged. “Nice-ish. You should wear more black.”

“Nice of you to approve your own wardrobe choices,” Alaric returned, drily. “Are we going or what?”

He had to admit, the restaurant was nice. Odd, though, because it was nothing like the bar, and Alaric really couldn’t imagine what Damon could possibly glean from it in terms of ‘the competition’. But Alaric liked it; the low lighting, the candles on the tables, the heavy, hand-thrown crockery.

“I thought you didn’t eat Italian out,” Alaric said. Damon paused a moment, and then sat back while the waiter poured wine.

“I don’t eat Italian out because I do it better,” he said, nonchalant. “But I’ve been surprised before. And you like it. Correct?”

Alaric shrugged. “I do. Did. It’s been a while. Guess we’ll find out.” He reached for a piece of garlic bread, dripping with warm butter.

“You don’t eat much.”

Alaric shrugged. “No. No need, you know. Unless there’s someone to eat with, or I’m in a bar or something…”

“Settles your stomach.”

“Not much.” Alaric shrugged. There were only two ways to deal with cravings, as far as he’d been able to glean; one was on a vein, and the other came in a bottle.

“Why did we lose touch?”

The question surprised Alaric, and he dropped the bread onto a small, uneven plate. The salt glaze was pretty, and uneven. “Because you and Elena made a call. You got out. No more… supernatural crap. Me, I’m stuck with it. You didn’t need that. You were building a life together.” Alaric had imagined children, when he’d thought of them. He called Elena from time to time, but over time that had become less frequent as well. “I figured you’d be making friends…”

Damon scoffed. “I’m still me. I don’t have any friends.”

“You’ve always said that, and you’ve always known it wasn’t true. But I’m not gonna argue the point. I stayed away. I’m here now.”

“You’re here now,” Damon agreed. He tore the crust off the garlic bread and stuffed it in his mouth like a kid might.

It was a good night. True to his word Damon didn’t need carrying out. And at home, he said goodnight, and Alaric stretched out on his bed to read.

The Italian was good. The Mexican a few nights later was less good, but more fun. Following Tuesday in a burger joint with an open mic night which was supposed to be the best in the city was memorable; a guy with a lonely sounding guitar crooned about love and loss.

“The guitar never sounds…” Damon made a gesture Alaric could neither have described nor explained, except perhaps to say that if Damon had been trying to pull a card out of another dimension, that was the way he would have gone about it. “ _Joyful_. It’s always holding something back.”

Something clenched in Alaric’s stomach. “Is this a metaphor?”

“I don’t speak in metaphors. I’m just saying. The acoustic guitar suffers chronic low-grade depression, and I think it spreads to the long-haired saps that play it.”

“And the piano?”

Damon tipped his head, and stretched his neck, and said nothing. His phone beeped, and he answered a quick text.

“The bar?”

“Permission to close early, captain. It’s quiet. Happens.” Damon shrugged and stared distastefully at the bowl of onion rings on the table. “Those things. Why can’t you eat fries like a normal person?”

“I eat fries,” Alaric said, ignoring the fries in favor of another onion ring.

“Onion rings taste even worse second-hand.” Damon glared at them. Damon’s habit of glaring at inanimate objects as if they had gone out of their way to upset him had never gone away, and Alaric liked it. “No one’s gonna wanna kiss you when you taste like onion rings.”

Alaric chuckled. “Lucky no one wants to kiss me.”

“This is our third date.”

Damon didn’t even make eye contact, just watched as someone set the microphone for someone standing. Alaric watched his face. Off-hand expression, pulse thumping hard in his throat.

“Is that what we’re doing, Damon? Dating?”

“I know, it’s weird, because we’re already living together, and all. Domesticity is supposed to be a down-the-road thing. But think of it as pre-foreplay.”

Alaric didn’t reach for another onion ring, but he swallowed down the last of his bourbon.

“Where did this come from?” Damon finally met Alaric’s eyes, but he didn’t reply, just raised an eyebrow in question. “Leave my feelings out of it completely – why are you doing this?”

Damon shrugged. “I killed your wife. Sort of. And you hated me, and then I killed you, and you got up and went vampire hunting with me. That was hot. And you were in love with Jenna, and she died, and you were grieving, and… we were looking for Stefan, and some of those trips were long. Sharing a motel room…” he made a suggestive face.

And he stopped.

“You’re inscrutable,” Alaric said, and sat back to let their server replace his empty glass with a suspiciously full one. He’d long since stopped resisting the allure of compulsion and had no interest in having his drinks refreshed every ten minutes.

Damon watched the stage for another long moment.

“It was never the right time.”

Alaric crossed his arms on the table, and waited, but nothing more was forthcoming.

“You were in love with Elena.”

“Have you forgotten how to form brand new sentences? Some of us are a little more complicated, Ric. Yes, I was in love with Elena. I still wanted you. Try to keep up. And now, I’m not in love with Elena, and she’s sure as shit not in love with me. And I still want you. And this is our third date and I don’t want you eating onion rings.”

Alaric felt one side of his face lift into a grin.

“You’re an asshole,” he said, fondly, and Damon turned to meet his eyes.

“Part of my charm.” He knocked his knee into Alaric’s thigh under the table and leaned back to watch the next act.

Third dates, Alaric was pretty sure, didn’t actually come with guarantees attached, but that didn’t stop him, once they were back in Damon’s apartment over the silent bar, from pulling Damon up against his body, from kissing him stupid. He felt a moment of resistance which turned out to be Damon trying to pull his shirt off. They bounced from wall to wall moving down the corridor, bumbling, inefficient, starved for affection the both of them. Damon tipped his head back, baring his throat, and Alaric struggled to kiss it rather than bite it, allowing himself a luxurious moment to run his nose along the vein, inhaling Damon’s incomparable scent.

Damon dragged Alaric into his bedroom, kicking off his shoes and grabbing at Alaric’s belt.

“Are you sure about this?” Alaric murmured, and Damon laughed; not exactly mirthful, but not far off, certainly not the painful sound Alaric had become accustomed to when Damon was laughing at fate or whatever the fuck.

“Do I seem sure? Who’s seducing who here?”

Alaric ceded the point and pushed Damon onto the bed, barely breaking the kiss as Damon struggled to get out of his paints, swallowing the growl Damon issued when Alaric closed a hand around his cock, already half-hard.

“This is… horribly inefficient,” Damon said, albeit slurred and with his bottom lip caught between Alaric’s teeth. “Get off. I’m not letting you fuck me in my socks.”

Alaric finally dislodged his shirt from his left arm, his right foot from its shoe, his jeans and underwear, and his own socks, just in time for Damon to grab his elbow and pull him close again, hips rolling against Alaric’s, eager for any bit of friction. Things were getting sticky. Alaric didn’t know if it was himself, Damon, both of them, only that their cocks nestled neatly between them and he hadn’t felt this good in a long fucking time.

“What do you want?” Alaric asked, because he was still a gentleman, and slaking his lust on Damon’s relatively fragile human body wasn’t something he particularly wanted to do without some kind of negotiation; he’d had sex maybe half a dozen times since he’d been turned and it had been brief and unsatisfying every time. Too afraid of losing control, too tempted by warm, hormone-soaked blood, not interested enough emotionally for anything to really get him going, just a warm body. He’d had no complaints, but that hadn’t encouraged him to go back for seconds, either.

“Please,” Damon said, rolling his eyes, and rolling his hips. “I’ve got a fresh bottle of lube in the top drawer of the dresser. Do I need to draw you a diagram? Fuck me. This has been a long time coming.”

Alaric felt the veins in his face fill, and he paused, getting himself under control before scrabbling for the lube. He tossed it aside, shifting his body, kissing his way down Damon’s chest. Still thin, but better than he had been when Alaric arrived. Damon tried in vain to get a handful of hair; pity Alaric’s hair started looking like something sparrows nested in when it got longer, or he might have considered growing it, for Damon’s sake.

Might have been then he realized he wasn’t planning to leave.

He closed his teeth over Damon’s nipple, and Damon growled, scratching the skin between Alaric’s shoulders and loudly demanding more. Never could know with men. Apparently Damon liked his nipples played with; Alaric tweaked the other, just to be sure, and Damon arched his back, fucking up into Alaric’s hand. Alaric dragged his teeth down over Damon’s stomach, tasting the clean sweat of his skin, hungry, desperate, wanting.

He breathed against Damon’s hip, and Damon brushed a thumb down over his cheek, more tender than he’d been, bringing on an unexpected tidal wave of emotion.

He moved again, licking over the tip of Damon’s cock, weeping copiously, and glanced up for just long enough to watch Damon’s eyes roll back in his head as he swallowed him down, the tip of his tongue working just under the head, bobbing his head to take Damon deeper, hollowing his cheeks until Damon was having trouble avoiding fucking up into his face and just let rip. Alaric didn’t need to breathe; still, it had been a long fucking time since he’d deep-throated someone, even longer since he’d actually wanted to, and it was hard not to remember the discomfort of a blocked airway.

He forgot soon enough, though. Damon’s enthusiasm was an effective anesthetic.

He reached for the lube, and felt Damon twitch in response to the sound of the crack of the plastic lid, rolling his hips to give Alaric better access. Alaric felt Damon push him away, and stopped, caution freezing him momentarily.

“Don’t wanna come that way,” Damon said, rolling onto his stomach despite the messiness of his limbs, uncooperative as they were. He got onto his knees, somewhat shakily, and Alaric was rewarded with the sight of his perfect ass.

Momentarily distracted, he took a cheek in each hand, squeezing, parting them, Damon’s hole winking invitingly at him. Damon wiggled his ass, and looked over his shoulder. His eyes were almost black, and Alaric smiled.

“Lots of lube,” Damon breathed. “I’ve seen that thing. And it’s been a while.”

“Promise,” Alaric said, running the lube over his fingers, letting it warm a little before he started working over Damon’s tight rim, softening the muscle; when he slipped one finger inside to the top joint Damon growled into the pillow, and Alaric gripped his hip.

Two fingers, taking Damon apart a piece at a time, stretching him out, taking his time (despite the apparent urgency) because watching Damon writhe was just too good. Three fingers, and Damon pushed back, looking up to snap “Get on with it,” through gritted teeth.

“Patience has never been your strong suit,” Alaric said, drizzling a little more lube over his cock, and tossing the tube aside.

“Hurry up,” Damon answered, more petulance crammed into those three syllables than he’d managed to display through the last couple of months combined.

But Alaric obliged, cheerfully, guiding himself into Damon’s well-prepared hole smoothly, slowly, mouth dropping into an o-shape; his eyes wanted to close, but his head had the good sense to watch. Damon pushed back against him, up on his elbows, and then on his fists, complaining little noises dropping from his lips until Alaric started to really move. He shuffled them both forward smoothly; vampire strength had its advantages. Damon took the hint, pulled himself up against the bed frame, and Alaric pressed behind him, slipping one arm around Damon’s body, gripping the headboard with his other hand, thumb pressed against the back of Damon’s hand, almost worshipful. Damon tipped his head back against Alaric’s shoulder, and Alaric tasted his neck. Blunt teeth, nipping, not just his throat, but his ear; nuzzling, without the gentleness the word implies.

“Do you love me?” Damon asked, still pushing back hard on every thrust.

Alaric closed his teeth over the rope of muscle stretch firm over Damon’s shoulder, and closed his eyes, focusing on the slap of flesh against flesh, never risking pulling back far enough to slip out of Damon’s tight hole.

Did he love Damon?

As long as it had been, as slow and painful and frustrating a road, he loved the man as much as he’d ever loved the monster.

“I do,” he murmured, against Damon’s ear.

“I need to hear it. A lot.”

“I love you.” Alaric shifted his hand from Damon’s chest, where he’d been idly playing with his nipple, and closed it over his cock, stripping it slowly, speeding up only by increments.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“You’re an idiot. There’s nothing left of me to love.”

Alaric said nothing, just kept Damon steady as his body began to jerk, fucking ruthlessly into him as Damon came against the headboard, and all over Alaric’s hand. He was threatening to crumble, but Alaric held him up, not bothering to try to stave off his own orgasm, just pressing his forehead to Damon’s shoulder as it tore through him, his entire body stuttering to a stop as he came, slumping against Damon’s body.

“You’ve never seen yourself clearly,” Alaric said, with a sigh, not pulling out, just enjoying the feeling of Damon’s body pressed against his own.

“I see just fine. I was twenty-four. Now I’m thirty-two.

“Improving with age,” Alaric countered. “Stop complaining.” He pulled out carefully, and grabbed a handful of tissues to clean up the stream of come running down Damon’s inner thigh.

“I need a shower,” Damon said, over his shoulder.

Needed a shower, needed a break from whatever onslaught of doubt and self-loathing was trying to cut through the haze of hormones, needed _something_ , Alaric got it. He backed away and let Damon leave without comment, cleaning up the head of the bed, flipping over the pillows with a silent promise to wash everything in the morning.

Go, or stay?

He listened to the shower run for a minute, indecisive, and then pulled back the covers and slipped beneath them. When Damon came back with a towel tied over his hips he looked concerned, for a half second, relaxing when he saw Alaric had stayed. He tossed the towel aside, and climbed in; he winced, for a half a second, as he sat, but he didn’t look particularly sorry about the fact that he was going to be walking funny the whole next day. He lay on his back, one arm stretched back and nestled behind his head, and when Alaric reached out to press his hand over Damon’s stomach Damon took it in his own.

“So you’re staying.” It didn’t sound like a question.

“As long as you want me here,” Alaric promised. “Vampires and humans, though. You know…”

“Don’t,” Damon said, and he turned to meet Alaric’s steady gaze. He wasn’t smiling. Looked content, though. “You know I’ve thought about every single aspect of that, a hundred times over, and I don’t wanna talk about it. I’m dying. I have to deal with that. If you stick around, so do you.”

“Shut up,” Alaric said, bundling Damon close and kissing his shoulder. “Just get some sleep.”

They were quiet a long time, but neither fell asleep.

“You could do it, you know.”

Another kiss. “You need sleep. What are you talking about?”

“You could suck the cure right out of me. I’d die. But so would you. Eventually.”

Alaric pictured it. Damon with white hair. One bite, all that blood settling in Alaric’s stomach, his heart rate changing, speeding up as human processes started again; oxygen flooding his systems as he held his dying lover in his arms. “If you haven’t booted me out in forty years, we can talk about it. Now. Sleep.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you,” Alaric murmured into Damon’s neck, and Damon turned to kiss him again.

“Idiot,” Damon answered, settling against the curve of Alaric’s body to sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I like to think this ended with Damon an old, crotchety man, the long-suffering Alaric at his side until the day they decided would be their last. But this thing could have been another novel and I just don't have the energy right now.  
> ––  
> PS. Alcohol withdrawal without medical supervision can kill, guys. Please don't try that at home.


End file.
